the king's thief
by Ezfa
Summary: It's all in her eyes, in the quirk of her lips and the tug of her brow; he'll do anything to preserve that. — #reylo #1940's!AU #neighbors!AU
1. 001

**THE KING'S THIEF**

* * *

 _ **("Don't ever stop writing; not even for yourself. You were always so good...")**_

Time is irrelevant right now; the man doesn't remember when he had arrived at the subway station. Actually, he doesn't even remember when he had woken up, or even when he had gotten… _ready_ for the day. But somehow, he's _here,_ standing in the middle of all this busy movement like a statue. He's vaguely aware that someone asks him to _watch where he's standing_ and a _get out of the damn way!_ But he doesn't move; he doesn't even know how long he has been standing here. Yet, with everything that has been happening lately, what _has_ happened to him, he wonders if this is what his father, Han Solo felt at some point just after knowing he was passing from this world.

 _ **("Don't worry about me, kid; I don't blame you for anything. You had every right to be upset.")**_

He tries to picture his father's face; old, worn and nearly lifeless thanks to the cancer, but with all the light and mischief someone like himself could never possess. Those eyes never dimmed away, not even in his last moments.

 _ **("Your mother and I… we never gave you that chance, did we? To be what you**_ _ **really**_ _ **wanted.")**_

In the very moment his father's image pops into his mind, he wonders what would happen if he just... _jumps_. Right now.

 _ **("Don't look so glum; everyone has a time. Mine just happens to be sooner that most. That's alright...")**_

His eyes stay fixated on one particular spot, beyond the heads within the bustling crowd and even as the trains speed past. Blank, hollow and utterly _impassive_ at the sight before him; everything is in motion, too fast and a mix of colors and shapes, but only serving to disassociate him even further in the blank niche at the back of his mind. It's to the point where even the _noises_ around him are merely whispers that echo somewhere in the background; it's all absolute nonsensical conundrum _._ The only constant variable within his grasp, quite literally, is the cigarette that he fingers within the pocket of well-ironed slacks. He slips just a little further within himself, and he realizes in that _very_ second he's about to do it; _truly_ and without hesitance. Even without consciously realizing it, his muscles tense; fists clench and his jaw hardens. In this very second, he's being torn apart by his own volition, but he remains immobilized beyond that point. He knows the current train is about to depart, so he waits.

Eyes close.

 _One… two…_ —deep breath— _...thr—_

 _ **("Don't rob yourself the opportunity to be happy;**_ _ **look**_ _ **at the world around you.**_ _ **Open**_ _ **your**_ _ **eyes**_ _ **, Ben.")**_

He almost chokes with his own spit at the action of hitching his breath. Air escapes his lungs and he feels like he's going to collapse beneath his own mangled weight right then and there. The very moment he decides to open his eyes, flickering up, something stops him even _before_ his mind commands his limbs:

A pair of eyes looking just as intense as he feels. Staring straight at **him**.

The woman standing on the platform across him, tracks separating them, is the only thing he can see clearly. She stands out crisp against the motion around her. Her auburn hair curls almost protectively, _gracefully,_ around her face, flowing with the wind's direction; eyelashes fan out against her cheeks, and lips slightly pried open as if she had just been about to say something. Not that he would have heard her.

But it's her unyielding, _bold_ eyes that have him enthralled; he _can't_ and doesn't look away.

He feels like he's been caught red handed; even though he knows that, realistically, he hasn't moved within the timeframe of his mental recession. There's _no way_ anyone would have picked anything from him just by looking alone. So why does he feel like she knows _exactly_ what's going on through his mind? The thought alone is all it takes; the noises seem to fade in from their previous mute state, the blurred figures and colors become undone as they divide into solid forms and he takes in the full weight of the action he had just been about to take. His Adam's apple bobs painfully against his throat as he struggles to _breathe_ again.

But his eyes _still_ don't stray from hers. And neither do hers.

It takes him a moment to realize he is trembling and simultaneously clutching onto the now destroyed cigarette in his pocket. He swallows painfully, and the effort is felt even through his chest. Yet, with a burning sensation that travels to his head, he wonders if it's even _him_ she's looking at; she could very well easily be staring at someone behind him. What if he had just pulled himself out of it because of some… _mistake?_ Or had it been a desperate attempt to grasp at straws and find an excuse to _chicken_ at out the last minute? As the seconds pass, he begins to become more and more panicked, the prospect at having been _caught_ is unbearable and shameful.

But as he strains to reorient himself, he notices that the woman looks a lot less _bold_ than they did just a few seconds ago. What he had perceived to be sharp attentiveness is actually a look of _sadness_. Like she's _disappointed_. He wants to know what she's thinking, and he wonders if that thought crosses her mind as well.

"— _Hey!_ Can you either _move outta the way_ or get on a **damn** train already?! You've been hogging up space for the last five minutes, buster!" yells an obviously distressed passenger, all but waving his briefcase at Ben. Has it really been _only_ been five minutes? The next train pulls over on their side, and it takes him a second to realize that he's right smack in the way of the door, blocking the entrance.

Ben sighs under his breath, but he moves out of the way regardless. The other man _harrumphs_ indignantly, but passes quickly, much to his relief. He wants to look at her again, at the woman who had just… inadvertently _stopped_ him from doing something absolutely _maddening_ and _insane_ and— He waits for the trains to pass and for the hoard of passengers to disperse. He actually tries to recapture her gaze, trying to imprint her appearance into his head so that he can _remember_ exactly what shade of brown hair to look for; even against his own consent, his feet shift on their own, trying to see past everything and everything. In retrospect an unnecessary movement, since he's already a large beast compared to the averaged height person in New York. But as it all disperses before him, and he waits patiently for her form to reappear, he's momentarily shaken by the fact that nobody is standing at that spot.

His eyes widen, and he wildly looks to either side, hoping to catch her at the very least _leaving._ But he sees no one with those soft curls. Or those parted lips. He's _stupefied_ in place, and though he still feels hollow, he's visibly _shaken._ So he leaves, and begins walking to his apartment. Ben doesn't look back.

He still has to unpack, anyways.

* * *

 **{ *** }**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **UNTITLED**

 **DRAFT #001**

 **By: Ben Solo**

 _The King can already feel a monstrous headache creeping up just from the sound of all this nonsense. The shadows that form beneath his weary eye bags pronounce at the bask of moonlight from the windows. The black tendrils of his hair graze his cheekbones sit like dead spiders; a dark and regal presence that bears the weight of his own crown like Jesus's thorned coronet, and his place of crucifixion is his own throne._

 _His Judas speaks. "They are making a mockery of Erste Bestellung!" The Head of The Royal Guard's words echo throughout the walls of the throne room, traveling beyond the corridors that trail to the castle's entrance. None of the other knights respond, keeping their heads low; not one single man has enough courage to so much as breathe when Hux, their commander, is ruddy in the face, cursing upon the Gods in the sky and back._

 _Sometimes, the King wonders if, indeed, Hux is deemed more appropriate for the title, rather than himself, from their reactions alone; he forgets how melodramatic his Royal Guard can be. One would think that he's the one being personally vilified, meanwhile Kylo Ren remains absolutely indifferent, chin resting at the base of his palm and his bored gaze directed to the floor. He sits on his throne like an uncaring onlooker; trapped in the scene that unfolds before him, without a real say in the matter. Radiating the royal aura cursed to him, but no more than only a puppet tied to the strings of what has already been decided for him in the preface of his birth; his reactions are only a mirror of whatever the Kingdom of Bestellung expects him to be, a prisoner beneath his own castle. His parents had tried to shelter him, too much, from the reality outside the Kingdom's walls; in their love, they had failed him tremendously._

 _He had become the very ruler that everyone fears and that everyone wants dead. But that's only because that was the only other option that was chosen for him. Kylo Ren never bothered to find out who he really was beneath his own hollow eyes. Neither his own father or mother bothered to ask him —who_ _ **are**_ _you? and instead asked —why do you have_ _ **his**_ _eyes? His alliance was already decided for him._

.

.

.

 **{ *** }**

* * *

He sighs and hurls the pen behind him, his fist poised just above the paper, _itching_ to grab it and crumple it. He doesn't know why he stops himself from doing so, but he does. His brown eyes remain impassive at the words before him, the black pencil scratches seeming to mock him with their abundance in prose and length.

It's all nonsense.

His hand rubs against his eyes and forehead, and he decides that for now, the passage is enough. It's not like he's on a deadline this time; his first and only series of vignettes compiled into a single book, _Within The Force,_ published 'success' was a joke at the time four years ago. He has no doubt it probably ended up in a five and a ten store for less than even that. It isn't so much the fact that he _can't_ write, but that he never knows what to write _about._ In his world, thrown and locked away from since he was raised, he could be whatever he wanted; nevermind the fact that his parents didn't pay attention to his craft or even frowned upon it. He had perfected the art of overwriting his whole character, bleeding all his own internal struggles and make it a wondrous tragedy on paper; _Kylo Ren_ is a King, a merciless ruler and the man who held a Kingdom's prowess in his fingertips. Whereas Ben Solo is struggling _would be_ writer trying to ease his depression by living off a meager wage as a part time graveyard busman on the restaurant by Fifth Avenue.

The black finished rotary phone to his left _—brrrrrriiiings_ to life, and he lets it ring at least two more times before picking up and holding it to his ear. He says nothing, and he waits patiently. Nevermind his bouncing knee and the chewing of his fingernail; he's not nervous. Really.

"Ben."

He doesn't reply to that.

" _Ben._ I know you're _there_. I can practically hear that knee shaking."

Still no response from him.

The older woman on the other line heaves a weary sigh. "You haven't called me."

"….I've no reason to."

"No reason to call your only _mother_? I find that a bit hard to believe."

"Well, believe it; because it's the only truth."

" _Don't_ — You… _you…_ Mm."

He raises a brow at her loss for words, and like only a mother can only do, she becomes annoyed quickly.

"Don't give me sass."

"I didn't _even_ —"

"I _said_ not to give me _sass._ Enough of this, it's been _four months_ already… Just _stop_ being a petulant _child_ and come _home_ already. We both mis—" her voice stops, catching herself in her mistake; whether they know it or not, they both flinch. " _I_ miss you. I need you _here_."

"No, you don't. Enough of _this,_ mother; stop _fooling_ yourself. You don't _need_ me. You never did." Bitterness seep through his words like sand through cracks.

She sucks in a breath. "You _know_ that isn't true. You _know_ it." Ben can hear her voice crack through quivering lips, and he hates himself for it.

But enough is enough.

"Do I? Because last I recall, you haven't called me _just_ to 'talk' ever since I moved out of that godforsaken house fifteen years ago. And you know what? Maybe this is a _good_ thing; maybe now you can realize just how _fucked up_ this family really was without _him—"_

"Don't you _dare_ finish that damn sentence **.** Benjamin Solo, _don't you_ _ **dare!**_ It's because of your **father** you are _alive_ and I'll not **hear** it from your blasphemous _mouth_ to disrespect him _in his grave_ just because _you_ — _"_

" _DON'T PRETEND YOU BOTH WERE THERE!"_

His sudden outburst silences her, and he wishes he could take it back; but he's already lost himself too much in his own temper. _Years_ of pent up frustration spill on their own accord despite his own best efforts. A shuddering breath expels from his chest painfully, and his hold on the phone is about the break it. "Don't… for a fucking **second** pretend that you _didn't_ hire nanny after nanny to watch over me as soon as I was barely able to talk. Don't pretend that you didn't send me off to some private school when I was _twelve._ Don't **pretend** that you didn't let _him_ influence your decision in sending me off to enlist in the _army_ as soon as I was seventeen. _Don't_ _ **fucking**_ _pretend you were any more a part of my life as I was in yours."_

She says nothing, but he can already imagine crystalized droplets falling onto the wooden floor beneath her feet. He can hear her regret laced in her tone, like she's trying to convince herself more than him. "…. _everything_ we did was for _you…_ we **loved** you so much, _we still do_. Please.. _please understand_..." A part of him _does_ understand, but it's overshadowed by all the bitterness of a child scorned by neglect from his own parents; he had to find solace in the safety of his own mind. "Despite everything, you're still _our_ son… we're a _family_..."

"Not anymore." He says with finality; any chance of such a thing has already been shot along with Han's passing. He can hear her breath shudder over the line, but he doesn't relent despite the self-hate he develops with every passing second.

His mother was never one to waver in an argument, much less when it's personal. Her persistence would be endearing, had the circumstances been different. "I thought… I thought you two had… made up. That you _resolved_ your differences when he was… approaching his final moments. Ben, he _forgave_ you… I know he did."

There's a slight pause after that. "Perhaps he did. But I haven't." At that precise moment, neither know exactly to whom he hasn't forgiven. Whether it's his father…

Or himself.

" _Benjamin_ —"

But whatever semblance of regret he may have just conveyed to his mother, even inadvertently, withers away as his stubborn resolve surfaces through, hardening his visage into a mask of indifference. "Don't call me again. You don't have a son." — _click_.

He basks in the twelve seconds of silence he's craved since the phone rang.

But it does nothing.

With a scream of rage, he throws everything off his desk, and chucks the phone across the room. He sits in silence for the rest of the day, crumpled over on his chair, hand plastered on his face. But he doesn't let himself cry. Not once. He falls asleep with nothing but his despair clawing at his insides like barbwire.

He'd have to make a note of that description later; it's more than suitable for Kylo Ren.

* * *

 **{ *** }**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

" _First, it's Her Late Majesty's parure, then it's His Late Majesty's ring, and now… now the thief has the_ _ **sheer audacity to— to—!"**_

 _All this over my Uncle's_ _ **bracelet.**_ _He decides that Hux's voice is exhausting and annoying. Kylo breathes a tired sigh, massaging his forehead with his gloved hand as he wordlessly commands Hux to be quiet with his other hand, waving him at him like he's a fly. With only a slight gesture, he summons Phasma to the front._

 _Without faltering in her steps, the Commanding Knight hands him an enclosed envelope. "This was found in place of your Late Majesty's possessions, your Highness." It's unopened, and he is immediately drawn to the grubby finger prints that flutter on the parchment like butterfly wings; his lip twitches when he catches the smallest whiff of honey, of all things. With flowing precision, he opens it effortlessly, and a breath hitches in the back of his throat:_

 _ **Would you fancy scavenging some treasure? I can be your eyes, and you can be my wings.**_

 _ **But you're going to have to catch me first. Watch out for me.**_

 _ **Your crown will be next.**_

 _This isn't just some hit and run thievery, it's a vendetta. The words are meant to be mocking, a thinly veiled threat under the guise of a flirty cat and mouse game initiation; by the time he was meant to find this, the thief had already passed through the walls, which is exactly the scenario that's playing out. They had even used his ink. From his study. The thief is familiar with the interior of the castle's walls. With him. And he's been letting it happen right under his nose for the past four weeks. Kylo should be seething, he should be choking someone out of pure rage; it wouldn't be the first time he had done so. Because nobody has ever had the nerve to steal from Kylo Ren, unless they have a death sentence; and yet, in spite of all that, he catches himself, catches the muscles around his mouth trying to form upwards against his own consent. The last time he has ever felt such a need was when he was twelve; when his father had handed him his first, real, handcrafted sword, specifically made just for the_ _ **golden**_ _child._

 _The Hel prince of the underworld that's been honed since before birth wants to be angry and vexed at the audacity of this thief. But underneath that mask and to his proper horror, he is entertained and_ _ **eager**_ _._

 _He wants more._

 _His lower face is hidden from view behind the dirty, honey scented parchment, scorching and darkened eyes wretched with the added intensity of his silence. His men are staring, their breaths caught in their throats like sheep in the slaughter. So he plays the part, brown eyes flickering to all of them, to Hux, to Phasma._

 _...and he crumples the paper ever so slowly._

" _Your Majesty…?"_

 _The whites of his eyes flash dangerously in the darkness._

 _He opens his mouth to speak—_

.

.

.

 **{ *** }**

* * *

Ben jolts from his slumber, mentally cursing at the interruption of his dream.

— _bzzzzttttttt_

Some idiot has forgotten their keys.

He can hear the landlord's buzzer going off from here. Ben tries to drown out the annoying _buzzing_ from his ears by smothering himself into his pillow. His body aches, and he can faintly make out the slightest drizzle from the sound of droplets that _plop_ against his window glass. His eyes tighten in an effort to fall back asleep; the last thing he wants right now is to be _coherent_. He should have drunk himself stupid right after talking to his mother. It certainly would help in this situation.

The sound continues on for a few seconds, stops, and then repeats...

 _bzzzzttttttt_

...but why does it keep getting—

 _bzzZZZZZZzzttttttt_

—louder—

 _bzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzttttttt_

—and _closer_ —

 _bzzzzZZZZ_ _ **ZZZZZZTTTTTT**_

"Oh for **FUCK'S** sake!" he wrenches the sheets away, nearly falling over from the speed of the near whiplash he practically gave himself. _—can't even get a damn break from my own damn_ _ **head**_ _in my own_ _ **flat…**_

Though the stranger on the other side of the door doesn't seem to have heard his outburst, for the damn buzzer is _still_ going. "I'm coming… _I said I'm_ _ **coming,**_ _goddamnit!"_ He wipes the sleepiness from his eyes with a heavy hand, not much caring how unkempt or scruffy he looks; he _hopes_ that his tired eyes and unkempt curls _scare_ off the person who's robbing precious minutes from his sleep, from his next _passage_ in the chapter. But he prefers the anger, the annoyance; it overpowers the guilt and the hurt that worms his way through his gut like slime. He lets his temper _flare_ as the seconds pass, working enough brute, vigorous strength to almost haul his own door off its' hinges. He's about to unleash _hell_ on the recipient; who knows, he may even feel up to slamming the door to the face once he finishes swearing and asking _just what the_ _ **fuck**_ _do you think people are doing at this time of day?_

But whatever ball of rage he'd built up goes up in smoke when he sees who it is. It's nearly unmistakable, but his mind just can't quite process it.

— _It's the girl from the subway,_ and his mind **reels**.

He gulps, for all the world feeling to him like it's the most audible thing in the confined space between them.

And yet, there she stands; with a slight, bemused smile on her face. If she recognizes him at all, she makes absolutely no indication of the fact, and it makes him feel _ill._ He doesn't know _how_ he's so sure that it's the same person, and the self-doubt of that thought makes his insides lurch; what if he simply imagined everything? What if it _never_ happened and now he's projecting onto this… this _girl_ simply for the fact _that shade of brown is_ _ **unmistakable**_ or because her _face is just so familiar_? What if he's truly gone mad?

"….—couldn't get the downstairs door open; they sent me the wrong key."

 _...say what?_

He says nothing to give any indication that he's heard her, and it takes him a moment to realize he didn't hear her at all. Frankly, he's been standing here like an idiot, staring at her with blank eyes and a slight gaping mouth.

She should be put off by his strange behavior, but whether it's Ben's sleepy state or his own hallucination, to him, she looks to him like they're exchanging pleasantries.

He's…. he's getting _embarrassed._

And, he realizes with newfound dread, that her eyes have not wavered from his; they're bold and bright, and he can't seem to really look away from them despite his best efforts. Ben can't seem to form any words, for his tongue is thick with uncertainty and, more importantly, _sleep._

"Sorry about interrupting." She has a very… _genuine_ smile, one that travels from the slope of her jaw to the crinkle of her hazel eyes, looking like she has absolutely no care in the world other than when her next spa appointment is going to be.

A green monster worms through his guts at the sight.

His hand vaguely gestures behind him, then to himself and then the hall, "...uhh...mm'sorry I— 'sleeping…" He can't even _speak_ coherently. Coming to from his _just waking up_ state, Ben is left more and more exposed to how truly embarrassing this whole situation is. He'd feel less awkward if she recoils from him, but this… _girl_ is looking at him like she's holding back _laughter_ , and his disheveled hair and ridden up shirt is _not_ helping him in looking at all threatening or _scary_ as he would have hoped, he now realizes.

 _Wait._ His mind suddenly snaps. _Wait…_ _ **what**_ _did she—_ Realization dawns on him.

His neck and ears suddenly feel a little too warm for his liking. It all pieces together when he studies her face again; delicate eyebrows slightly raised and soft lips puckered to a slant like she's biting the inside of her cheek.

 _You have_ _ **got**_ _to be—_

Words seem to grasp his tongue again, thankfully. "I _wasn't_ — you didn't _interrupt_ anything. I was **sleeping**!" _Why_ the words come out so unnaturally high pitched and cracked is beyond his own understanding, and it amplifies the warmth to his neck and ears even more.

That does little to convince her, and she _chortles_. Nobody _chortles_ **at** him.

"I mean… it's _okay_ , it's not like I'm _judging;_ we all do it." She shrugs so casually, so easily.

Her words should **not** be eliciting unease in the magnitude they do, but _they do_. Ben huffs indignantly, eyebrows furrowing into a look of annoyance. " _Look,_ **kid** — you didn't…. I was _sleeping,_ " he finds himself repeating the phrase, and it annoys him a lot more than it should.

"Sounds a lot like you're trying to convince _yourself_."

His fingers twitch at her remark. _The_ _ **nerve**_ _of this damn brat—_ "What are you— **What** would even give you that impression anyway?!"

The stony gaze she sets on him all too suddenly unnerves him; her flickering gaze examines him head to toe, not shy at all in the open display and he finds himself unconsciously recoiling ever so slightly at her boldness. She then raises an eyebrow like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and, _without his consent,_ she peers her gaze to his room; it's messy, but the bed is _absolutely_ atrocious. The sheets are rumpled, and, reluctantly, even he can admit that looking at the whole scenery a second time, _does_ give the impression that the room has been… used.

Why is he feeling embarrassed for something _he didn't even do?_ And even if he _had_ , there shouldn't be _shame or embarrassment or_ _ **anything**_ , right? Right? Ben feels like a damn _teenager_ all over again; like all the times his mother would shuffle around his things, making sure he didn't have any _hidden goods_ in possession.

"O- _kay!"_ he places an arm on the doorframe with a loud _thunk_ , —just a tad forcefully— blocking her line of sight and giving her a clear message of _stop looking in my_ _ **house**_ _you lunatic— "_ _well_ _,_ I am so _glad_ we had this conversation. Kindly _leave_ so I can—"

He's cut off by her laughter, and he's so very _undignified_. What makes matters worse is that her laugh is so _sincere_ it _shouldn't_ sound like honey or _sensual in the least, and what is he even_ _ **on**_ _right now—?_ The only proper response he can conjure up is to cast her with a blank look of utter _disbelief_ once again. _What_ _is with this woman?! Is she_ _crazy_ _?_

It takes for her laughter to subside and fade into amiable silence to realize just how much he already _misses_ the gentle sound.

Maybe _she's_ not the crazy one.

"Oh goodness; your _face…_ wheeww, _your face_ is just—" she wipes a legitimate _tear_ from her eye, and Ben is utter shell shocked at the ridiculousness of this whole thing. And as if things couldn't be any more ludicrous, she holds out a delicate, gloved hand in his direction.

"I'm Rey; your new neighbor. I just moved in."

At those words and that impromptu introduction, his first instinct is pure venom wrapped in a bow along with _sarcasm._ _Thanks for fucking humiliating me, but I appreciate the pleasant introduction; I'm Ben, by the way—_ His gaze flickers to her hand and then back up to _her_ , and he lets himself take on the sight of her eyes. Her eyes aren't _scary_ or wide open; but they're just too much for him. Too _bold_ , too _precocious_ and too damn _observant_. And unlike him, Rey's eyes do not flicker all around _but_ him; they stare right at his, not daring, and not even challenging.

… _inviting._

Rey doesn't repeat her introduction again, but she doesn't pressure him with further gestures or a raise of her brow; but she just… _stands_ there and waits for him to take her hand, almost like a _child_ would.

But something catches his eye, and he sees it plain as day next to her hip, within the grasp of her _other_ hand:

 _Within The Force by Ben S._

The book, along with what he assumes is her boxcutter, sit perfectly nestled against her slim hip, and he can tell she has a firm grip on both items. He thinks his heart stops in that very second, and his head is filled with more questions than ever.

She has not moved an inch, but he feels cornered. It's too hard to breathe and his mouth twitches at his own discomfort. He does what's perfectly logical for a man of thirty-four to do in that moment:

Without a word and a loud scoff, Ben slams the door in her face.

On the other side of the door, he's more than surprised that he counts out exactly 60 seconds for her steps to retreat.

That same hour, he tries to imagine what it would have been like to actually shake her hand, and maybe even ask her if she likes to take the subway periodically or _why the_ _ **hell**_ _she has a copy of_ _ **his**_ _stupid book?!_

But for the next oncoming days, his dreams are not of reliving his father's death or delving into the story of Kylo Ren.

It's of hazel and emboldened eyes staring at him from across the subway rails.


	2. 002

Life goes on; so he tries to force himself to move forward as the days pass. Waking up daily is a struggle, picking up the pen and touching it to paper is a hassle, and going anywhere is an annoyance. He refuses to entertain the notion that he's _grieving_. It's just a writer's block and he's busy. That's it.

Ben nearly _breaks_ when he receives a single, small, letter in his mailbox.

 **Sorry for your loss  
** — **Uncle Luke**

Rage nearly consumes him in that single second; not like after his conversation with his mother over the phone two weeks ago. This is _white_ and _hot_ seething rage; he can't even find it in his motor abilities to rip the offending _scrap_ in half and toss it in the trash bin. His jaw clenches, and he has to clench the letter in his hand to _stop_ the violent shaking. His eyes are otherwise blank, hollow, and unfocused. He doesn't know how long he stands there; a growing habit of losing track of time.

 _Damn that rotting, walking_ _ **carcass**_ _. Acting like he even_ _ **gives**_ _two shits._

He hadn't even _heard_ her steps or realized how he's missed the onslaught of her familiar perfume.

"Do you always stare at your mail like you're going to murder it, or is this a special occasion?" Her tone is playful, but politely respectful; she's hesitant.

Good. He's not in the mood.

And yet, Ben can't find it within himself to snap at her for intruding, or not knowing just how i _nconvenient_ her timing and wording are. He counts to ten, forcing himself to ease his grip on the parchment, breathing through his nose and urging himself to just _let. It. Go._

It's almost like Rey senses his discomfort, and so in amiable courtesy, she hums softly to some unknown jazz number while she retrieves her own mail, not once pestering him any more than she already has.

For that he is grateful.

He shuffles awkwardly, looking into his mailbox again even though he's already searched thoroughly. His gaze flickering to her, and taking in her physical details from her side view. In the few instances he can steal a look, he can appreciate her delicate features; soft chin and nose, small pink painted lips and a mischievous air in the quirk of her brow. Ben spots a light lift of her mouth, but he doesn't stare too long to confirm his suspicion. She's opening her letters with that same boxcutter he saw her with last time, and he raises a brow at that.

After a moment, he taps the offensive letter on his hip and he clears his throat. "I… I wasn't in the best of moods, when you knocked on my door." That's as close to an apology as he will give.

This quickly captures her attention, and slowly, _agonizingly,_ she turns to him; there goes her eyes again, like she's seeing _nothing_ else but him. He's definitely not imagining the playful tug on her lips or the quirk of her brow. Rey doesn't respond, and instead tilts her head, slightly unsure, but curious all the same.

At her lack of his response, he shuffles once more, feeling for all his height and imposing nature like he's a lanky acne-ridden teenager all over again. He holds out his hand, big and just plain _awkward_ like it's some sort of initiation rather than a polite introduction. She has that same look to her eyes, from last time, and he fleetingly panics when she doesn't take his hand for the first 2 seconds; it would serve him right, absolutely. "I'm… Benjamin. You can just call me Ben though." He releases a mental sigh of relief when something makes her eyes flicker to his hand, and her grin breaks free, entrancing him again.

She grasps his hand in her own, playful and light, but firm all the same.

"I figured as much; you being in a bad mood and all, I mean. You know, _after_ slamming the door in my face." Her accent is very _pleasant_ to his ears, of all things, and Ben has to _reel_ himself in and maintain in check. London? He's never bothered to learn or even care about the varying accents within the region, but he finds himself curious anyway. "I should be the one apologizing though; I honestly didn't mean to intrude or wake you up…. But I just couldn't _help_ it," she chuckles.

He nods in understanding, and for once in a _very_ long time, lets himself _smile_. It's not a good one, and it's _barely_ one at that, but it's _genuine_. "Yeah… I… I guess I wouldn't either." An untrue statement, but he can't help but humor her; if only to keep her smiling.

"So, not a fan of literature then?" Regretfully, she finally lets go of his hand and

He blinks, taking a moment to let the words sink in; she idly smooths down the fabric of her silk gloves, tracing the lace patterns delicately, the sight distracting him slightly before he speaks. "I.. what?" She waves around that godforsaken _book_ of his in the air; he hadn't even noticed the darn thing in her grasp and he kicks himself for not noticing earlier.

Her look is one of triumph, " _—Ahh,_ _ **there**_ it is. You had that very _same_ look when you glared at my book," his heart practically _flutters_ at her usage of _my book_ —calling his work _hers_ — "Have you even read this at all?" Her tone is _almost_ accusing, but Ben isn't sure.

 _Have I even read it—_ He thinks sarcastically. Funny. His lips twitch, still not believing the giant irony of this. "I have, in passing" his tone is nothing short of restrained sarcasm and heavy with curtness. "It's garbage."

She surprises him with a stony glare so ferocious, that he has to resist the urge to step back. Her jaw is set, and her eyes are practically daggers. But its gone in an instant and, instead, her expression settles on something softer, and less fierce; like he's ignorant. "It most absolutely is _not_."

He raises an eyebrow, urging her to continue.

Rey huffs, and she grips the book just a little tighter, protective. "It's _art_."

He scoffs. "In what _way_? It's all just—"

"It tells the story of a tragic man; he's… he's…" she gestures in the air, trying to find for the appropriate words. "A tyrant king, power hungry and the typical jazz; but we delve into his psyche, following him from his birth every emotional and physical abuse he has to endure, and he becomes _stronger_ because of it. He goes down a dark, dangerous path, and he ultimately gets what he's worked so hard to achieve. Yet he just… he's so _misunderstood_ and—"

Now it's his turn to interrupt. "Wha— _Misunderstood?_ He's downright _detestable_ and intolerable; he's _selfish_ and he's done so much _damage_ to those around him. Kylo Ren is just… just.." He doesn't know how the conversation has turned into _this_ ; with him delivering a heated and passionate speech about a literal royal _jerk_ of a character that, most importantly, is a pathetic, glorified version of himself. "He's murdered his own father to take the throne in a hungry quest for power. He's _exterminated_ helpless villages with innocents _and_ though he expresses _some_ regret, in order to _'fix'_ all of his wrongdoing, it would take a hell of a lot more than just an apology. The only redeemable action that he can do at this point, _at the very least_ , is to just **die**."

Ben has never expressed Kylo Ren's character so outwardly, so bluntly and unforgivingly. It leaves his mouth dry and his throat constricting. He's always treasured the tyrant that he pours all his grief in, and he would, at any other given time, be the one to _defend_ him. But something about _her_ defending Kylo, having that _sparkle_ in her eyes like she wants to _fix_ him, as if he's _redeemable,_ makes Ben uneasy. Kylo is not deserving of such compassion, of such starry-eyed sympathy. He's a detestable _beast._

Ben expects Rey to retaliate, to scoff and walk away in a huff from the tone he's given her, or to even _smack_ him with the book. But, like every moment thus far, she never fails to utterly floor him.

Her face breaks into a genuine smile. " _In passing,"_ she repeats his line from earlier, "...sure."

His lips part, slightly gaping, before he swallows uncomfortably at being caught in his own blunder.

She shakes her head and shrugs, holding his book like a precious stuffed animal against her chest. "I think… I think he just needs someone to truly empathize with him; understand him and show him the right path."

"Who would want to?" He asks, lightly scoffing. _He's_ the creator of the character, and even _he_ didn't want to deal with Kylo's emotional baggage despite being the source of it.

She tilts her head, and shrugs again. "Someone broken as he is," she says, like it's the most obvious and genuine thing in the world.

There's a pregnant pause in the air; his mind drawing at an absolute blank at the idea. It's one he has never considered before.

"Monsters aren't capable of regret; Kylo Ren isn't a monster, but he does deserve a good punch, or two, upside the head."

The corner of his lips quirk, and he nods humbly. "Yes… yes he does."

"It's just such a shame that the author hasn't given him proper closure; there's so much that needs to be answered."

"You're very invested in Kylo Ren," he notes with a smirk, "Don't tell me you're in love with the man-child of a King."

" _Ha-ha._ You're _so_ funny." He notices how her breath hitches in her throat, coming out as an uneasy sigh, and her eyes flicker nervously to his. She brushes the tendrils of her curls behind her ear, and he most certainly does not miss the crimson blossoming of her cheek, or the nervous aversion of her gaze to the spine of her book. "But… who's to say I'm not? It's not like he's _real_ or anything; not that I mind if he was. Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, at least you're honest about it; they say the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem in the first place." She smacks him for that, plenty hard despite him being built like a rock; but not once does her grin leave her face.

That night, and well within the morning, he manages to write a dozen pages front and back.

* * *

"— _ **STOP!**_ Get _back_ here you - _you; ooooh! You_ _ **deranged**_ _beast!"_

He hisses; Ben nearly falls back from his swiveling chair from shock at the yell, cursing as his firm pressure on his pen causes him to draw a very **thick** line across his whole piece of paper, and his recently-written words. He hears running footsteps and slamming of doors; but that voice is unmistakable. It's the only motivation he needs to drop everything despite his mini-heart attack. He wrenches his door open, all but running and then skids easily across the halls, his eyes roaming everywhere wildly, with purpose. _Where is she?!_ His breath is heavy and his adrenaline is through the roof. Finally, his eyes land on her backside; she looks like she's run through the world's longest marathon.

Rey is disheveled and panting for her life; she turns to him, as if sensing his presence. Their eyes collide for a second before hers widen, and she holds both hands in his direction, as if _Ben_ is the one who needs calming. "Don't…. move..." she whispers harshly, and then her eyes land on something that he knows isn't him, but _beyond_ him. A gloved finger is held to her lips, an indication for him to not make a sound.

Ben is beyond confused. But he has no time to ask _what the hell's going on?—_ because less than a second, after she begins _running_ toward him with the ferocity of a damn lioness.

And with that stupid, familiar boxcutter of hers in a wild grip, Ben doesn't like how the scene is playing out.

" _Wait—!"_ he barely has any time to speak, much lift his hands; for a second, he thinks she's literally running _to his arms_. But it takes him a moment to realize that she's looking _downward,_ and he catches a blur of _grey_ in the corner of his eye.

" _Why you_ _ **little—**_ Bee-bee! _Hold still you little sneak!_ " But Rey miscalculates her speed and her grasp; unsurprisingly, she rams into Ben's shoulder.

And she rams _hard_. He hears a slight _crack_.

That's how Ben learns that his neighbor, Rey, is not only an avid fan of his book, but that she also tends to wear gloves despite whatever time of the day it is, always has that _damn_ boxcutter in her grasp, and that she also has a cat named Bee-Bee.

He finds that fitting, somehow.

A wild goose chase after the cat ensues in the halls, more yelling and falling on his side _twice_ leads to the both of them in her unit, drinking coffee and a smoke or two in amiable silence. Despite the annoying pain on his _near_ dislocated shoulder, and the constant rubbing and rotating of it, he's never been so comfortable in the presence of a near stranger.

Well, Rey's not really a stranger anymore. Certainly not after last time, _especially_ not after this.

She's on the chair next to the coffee table, wringing her gloves and sneaking glares every now and then at the grey cat, who's lovingly rubbing against Ben's legs. Her unit is sparkling, and he's glad they decided to settle to go to hers instead of his; it puts his cleaning habits _to shame_. It's like she just moved in. Did she spend her days cleaning in here all day?

"I think he likes me," he says calmly, though is thoroughly enjoying how _definitely_ annoyed Rey is. He absentmindedly scratches the cat behind the ears.

Her eyes narrow in his direction, though with blank venom; she's a disheveled mess, loose curls sprawled everywhere and caressing her neck and face, pink lipstick smeared across her lips and staining her chin. She looks so _ridiculous_ and _done._ It's taking everything in him not to laugh, a feeling that's very foreign to him, so he takes another sip of his coffee. She has a fondness for flower and lace patterns, and it's made evident on not only her gloves, or her berets and mugs, but also the paintings that hang off the wall and the plotted pants on her windowsill.

"Fitting; probably because he knows you to be a troublemaker."

" _You're_ the one that has a cat in an apartment that specifically doesn't allow pets."

She pouts even more, and lowers her gaze to her gloves, tugging on them some more.

"He's… not mine." He tilts his head at her uneasy confession, her tone not previously matching any past portrayal of her that he's conjured up these past few days. "He belongs to a friend of mine; before he left to serve."

Ben doesn't know _why_ , but his stomach feels like it _plops_ heavily down to his feet. _Her lover…?_ After all, only those with vivacious energy and starry eyes half as brilliant as hers are because they are hanging onto someone they love. His lips twitch, and they thin into a fine line even despite his best effort.

But she then barks a genuine laugh, and he realizes that he's said it out loud.

"My _lover_? Hah! Ahh, no no; you misunderstand Ben. Finn and I… ah, we go way back. We grew up together you see. In the same foster home and everything; he just..." she trails off, and he doesn't know how to take that notion, and it doesn't do much to relieve… _whatever_ it is he is feeling. It doesn't leave him convinced0, but he believes her anyway.

"He found Bee-Bee in the street when we were seventeen or so. It was just the three of us for a while, after we were legally adults and all that noise." Her gaze is lowered all over again, and Ben finds himself leaning forward. "I promised Finn to have Bee-Bee safe and sound for when he… comes back."

He doesn't quite understand her obscure tone, and he can't decipher the blurry details of her past, and though he wants to _know all of it_ , he feels intrusive. A photograph where he doesn't belong, and he swallows the bitterness of it. So he nods and doesn't ask anything, giving her the option of expanding on her story on her own accord.

But at his lack of response, she gets that look of disappointment, from the subway, and he pretends he's never seen it before.

He diverts his attention elsewhere.

"Your gloves..." he begins, but he halts himself when she completely stills; and in some, strange, pull of instinct, Ben stops himself from being intentionally intrusive. Something _tugs_ in his gut; he doesn't know _what_ , but he knows that based on the jerky movement before going still, or the way her mouth subtly twitches, that he's possibly crossing into something of hers. He… he doesn't know what that means. So he clears his throat and tries again. "Your gloves are nice. You… always have a different pair every time I see you."

She looks uneasy, and maybe… _just maybe_ it's wishful thinking, but he sees the tiniest bob in her throat.

But he doesn't like how she hasn't looked up yet, so he changes his phrasing at the last minute. "Do you design them or something?"

He's relieved when mirth returns to her face, and she turns to him with an innocent smile and a tilt of her face. "Hah, if only."

"So what do you do?"

Her smile twitches, just for a second.

He finds himself mirroring the tilt of her head, and he wipes his mouth in an attempt to literally wipe the oncoming grin off his face. Smiles and grins and _happy faces_ never flattered his face, and he doesn't want to scare her away.

"I… like to draw," she breathes a small sigh, as if exhausted talking about herself and it _baffles_ him because the very thought is utterly ridiculous. He finds that he wouldn't mind listening to her all day. "What about you?"

Not it's his turn to still, and _of course_ he knows that she quickly notices. _—what utter_ _ **fools**_ _we are,_ he thinks. "I write." He doesn't know why he admits it; his main income is his graveyard job.

She nods and _hmms_ lightly, like she expected it. "Anything I should know?"

He can't help but think that she _probably_ knows; the kid isn't _stupid_ , and… well, his _name_ is Benjamin after all. Not a far fetch from _Ben S._ "Nothing… worthy of note."

Rey gives him a peculiar gaze, before kindly nodding and leaving it alone. "If you say so. But… you should really show me sometime; I love to read a good tragic romance. Preferably one with a happy ending."

"Romantic tragedy, I think you mean," he ignores her pout, "How can you even get a _happy_ ending from a _romantic tragedy_?" He asks, curious and confused at the same time. "Seems like they contradict each other."

"Or they could compliment each other."

He says nothing, but his mind whirls with all the _possibilities_ concerning Kylo. He thinks about the thief, _Kylo's thief, the_ _ **King's**_ _thief;_ and he entertains the possibility that she won't be soft or demure like he had originally envisioned. She'll be fierce, _strong_ and unwavering in her own ideals; unforgiving and nurturing, the kind of woman that Kylo wouldn't know how to handle. _Kira_ , he thinks. _I'll name the thief Kira; she can be the one to give the punches that he deserves._ He's never been more excited to write all this out once he goes back to his own unit; his hand itches for a pen.

And almost like Rey _hears_ what's on his mind, her smile spreads even more. "I wouldn't even mind being your muse once in a while if you really need me to."

He looks at her, then, _relieved_ that he doesn't even need to ask. "I'll keep that in mind, but only if I get to pose for one of your portraits." He doesn't care if her art is the worst thing in the world; the thought of Rey watching him intently for an extended amount of time because she _has_ to is… appealing to him. He wants to see what _she_ sees when she looks at him; who is Ben to her?

"Fair enough."

"I want it to be signed, dated and blessed by the Holy Priest of the Roman Catholic Church during the full moon."

"Strange request, but I'll try."

They both laugh, and it's the best day he's had in years.

"By the way, Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"You should smile more; it suits you."

In that moment, he decides he'll _try_ to smile a little more from now on; she's reason enough to give that effort.

* * *

Ben steals glimpses of her whenever he can, finding himself fascinated by her. Something in his chest nearly bursts in anticipation when he finds out that she does the same, at times. Their small, fleeting and fragmented moments are sprinkled along the hours, the days when they pass by each other. He's even forced himself to _stop being such a creep,_ because the man is no fool. He has too much going on, too much tragedy emitting from his own depths of hell, and the last thing he wants is to _contaminate_ her with such problematic baggage. She doesn't need it on her shoulders, when he can barely stand it by himself.

But then his mother starts calling him again.

And his grim reality starts to settle on him all over again. He lets Leia cry, scream, yell and vent to him. But he never responds, and he hates himself with each day that passes for always picking up the phone and for being a horrible son. Ben doesn't come out of his unit for nearly five days; not for work, not to pick up the mail, and he forgets about the existence of Rey for that span of time.

His writing suffers; it's not even his damn hand anymore. It's _him._

In a desperate attempt to gain a semblance of sanity, he hurls his windowsill open; all the progress he's done thus far, endless drafts and excerpts of Kylo's thoughts sprawled hastily and angrily against nearly all the pages are crumpled into his fists. His muse has been non-existent, and he's _tired_ of staring at nothing but _blank_ paper.

He wants to be done with it all.

But then, he sees her again, finds her on the edge of her windowsill, leaning forward with an intense look to her eyes. Her jaw is clenched, and he finds it _new and different_ to find that she holds a pencil instead of the boxcutter he's used to seeing her with.

She's holding the length of the pencil upwards, pointing it to the sky and grazing about a couple of centimeters of it with her thumb. Her small lips are clean of any lipstick or gloss, and he finds himself thinking that it suits her better. Normally-loose tendrils of curls are swept back in a messy updo, revealing her slim neck and her thin frame beneath a pink cotton shirt a size or two much too big for her.

He forgets that he's even there; that they _know_ each other now, and they're not random a random passerby to one another. As if his stare carries a weight of it's own, she seems to sense his presence and turns in his direction. He must look like an idiot, papers in hand and his window wide open, caught in the middle of some deranged action. Ben waits for the inevitable raise of her brow, or tilt her head, or _heck_ , even recoil in utter horror and slam the window. _Anything._

Instead, she smiles and _waves_ at him, as if he _doesn't_ look like a deranged lunatic.

His throat bobs.

"Hey, there! Getting some writing done?"

"I… Ideally," he hates how his voice cracks awkwardly, heavily and utterly unpleasant to his ears.

Rey doesn't seem to pick up on his discomfort whatsoever. She shrugs, "Yeah, same here; ever since I quit my job, I've had more time than I know what do with. I've been sitting for the last hour just _trying_ to get some sketches done, but," she makes a wet _pop_ from her mouth, biting the inside of her cheek and her gaze landing to the horizon all over again, a sparkle to her eyes, "it just never _quite_ works out the first few times. You know how it is."

He can't find any words.

She never ceases to amaze him.

Her grin graces his direction again and she gestures with her head, bobbing toward the outside. "Come on; let's cut out. I'm tired of staring at my blank canvas, how about a carnival?"

He's always detested carnivals and fairs; the clowns are terrifying, the mirrors amplify his hideous features, and the cotton candy is utterly tasteless. His father would take him and dump him for a few good hours, and he would huddle in some corner under a tree and cry.

"I'd love to."

She looks excited, giddy even; and he's _happy_ that this time, he knows he caused that smile. Just this once.

She rushes inside to her own unit, and within five minutes, she's at his door. "I'm hogging all the cotton candy. The blue ones are my favorite,"

"Sounds good to me."

Thankfully, much to his bigger relief and to her chagrin, they don't accept anymore guests and have ceased selling tickets for the day. He buys her some ice cream instead on the way back to their apartment, around the corner from where they live.

But what Ben doesn't notice is how intently she watches him as he's drawn to the sounds of the subway. Sometimes he forgets all that.

And… he hopes that he hadn't made a mistake.


	3. 003

He doesn't remember _how_ or _when_ , but somewhere along the passing glances in the hallway, the endless trips to the mailbox and _definitely_ after the failed rendezvous to the carnival, Ben and Rey had agreed on a time for her promised portrait. Well more like, they _tried_ to agree, and then on one morning after she _barged_ into his unit with a giant sketch pad, and pencils, in hand, looking at him expectantly. He's becoming more and more desensitized to this kind of thing. She takes virtually no time in setting up her 'workspace', and even less so to chastise him to get ready _because she hasn't gotten all day._

He's still in _bed._ Ben only looks on incredulously before _attempting_ to ignore her presence; he shuffles in bed, covering himself with the sheet and turning away from her.

Rey blows a strand out of her eyes impatiently, huffing and puffing like she's dealing with a petulant child, which is amazing in of itself since _she's_ the one acting as such.

He almost snorts.

" _Ben,_ for _goodness_ sakes; we _agreed_ to this."

"I did no such thing." His voice is muffled. "Do you have _any_ idea what time it is? Christ; you did the same thing the first time."

"Untrue; I knocked."

"Having _that_ in mind, you found it acceptable to barge in here and nearly break down my door. Have you even _eaten_ anything yet?" Perhaps it's not the best phrased question, concern veiled underneath the words, but it doesn't stop him from asking anyway. "I have most of the day off; we could have done it any other time." He just wants to go back to _sleep_ already.

"Well, _you_ may have all the time in the world, but _I_ certainly don't. Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered to barge in here."

At that, he _definitely_ snorts. "I honestly doubt that," his response earns him a glare and crossed arms.

Eventually, after some coffee, the man finally relents; he's not _happy_ , but he's… not at all troubled. Never. Not when it's her. It's not like he has anything better to do anyway.

"I can't concentrate with you moving like _that_." God help him, though; Rey expects him to… to do what exactly? Stand with all the grandeur of some king? Pose like The Thinker? He has no idea; she lets on no such clues, wordlessly letting _him_ deem best for whatever this portrait is suited for. He's been fumbling around his bed and on the floor for five minutes now.

Annoyance seeps through his giant ears and he's sure steam would start pouring from them any second now. " _Jeeze, so sorry_ about my inability to function _flawlessly_ at 6 am in the morning. You see, some damn brat barged into my room no more than fifteen minutes ago _while I was asleep._ I'm not exactly _prepared_ for this kind of thing here," a pause, "...kid, _your_ cat keeps _rubbing_ my leg— _why_ did you even _bring_ him here?"

Much to his morning mood, she pouts. "He followed me here and stop being so melodramatic! _And would you stop calling me_ _kid_ ; I'm not _that_ much younger than you!"

Not bothering to _seriously_ correct her on her naivete _—oh right, my bad; you're right, I'm only near a decade older than you-_ he starts worming himself against the couch instead, _just to irritate her a little more_ , shuffling his arms and legs. " _—O-kay, look_ just hang on and give me a second here; staying _still_ for a while _is_ pretty uncomfortable, spare _some_ sympathy for my plight."

She doesn't look the least bit impressed. "You haven't even decided on a pose, Ben."

He doesn't bother to hide his scowl, " _You_ try staying still for more than a couple of minutes then."

"Do you _want_ this portrait finished or not?"

The only response she receives is a grunt, but he settled on a position for a final time. Face leaning against the crook of his elbow on his small coffee table, looking _up_ to her with bold eyes _-him being the one who initiates the eye contact this time; i_ t's already killing his back, but in reality, he just really likes to see the delicate slope of her jaw working through as she vigorously pencils in the details of his face. Finding himself _craving_ her gaze, he counts down the seconds before she peers down at him in concentration. He's no artist in the least; but he's sure that unless she has _photographic_ memory or something, she would look _at least once_ at him to appreciate his features and translate them manually on her canvas.

But she never does. Not even once.

"What more did you want to see in that one book you like so much?"

The _scritch-scratch_ of her pencil halts, and her gaze flickers down at him. "Can I _please_ concentrate so I can—"

"Don't give me that, kid," -he ignores her _growl_ at the 'endearing' term _-_ "You're an _artist_ ; an experienced one at that, I can tell. Pretty sure you can talk and draw at the same time."

The smallest of smirks grace her features, her eyes twinkling mischievously, as if caught in a lie. Proud, smug and just all around _sneaky._ She goes back to her work, and begins speaking to him after a couple of seconds. "I don't know; I guess… I guess knowing that Kylo has _at least_ some hope of redeeming himself would suffice."

Ben grumbles under his breath, the question of _why?_ brewing on his tongue, but he thinks better of it. "How could you possibly think he's the least bit redeemable?"

Rey's face scrunches, apparently not liking a line or so; she erases vigorously, what he assumes, a large part of the drawing, causing him to wince slightly. She _tch's_ grumpily, "You know if I didn't know any better, I'd say _you're_ the one more invested in his story than I am," and _oh, she has_ _ **no**_ _idea the severe truth in that._ He holds back a scoff. "Is it so bad to think that even the most evil and heartless of people are still worthy of second chances if they proven themselves?"

"When _has_ Kylo Ren proven himself?"

Rey refutes with his own question thrown inside out; "When _hasn't_ he proven himself?" The pressure on her pencil has her knuckles white and her eyes _harden_ on the surface of the paper, unwavering and unrelenting, _determined_ _—why isn't she looking at_ _ **me**_ _like that right now?_ _ **Does**_ _she look at me like that when I'm not looking?_ More harsh lines, deeper and harder, and he even winces at the obvious pressure, expecting the paper to fully rip right then and there. He knows that sentiment, as a creator; she wants to tear his face to shreds, so it seems.

That is, until she takes a deep breath and twirls her gloved wrist softly in her other hand.

Always with those _gloves—_

She expands further, "Through his regret, through his doubts and his _conscious_. He may be close to a monster, very much so; but it's his very person that makes him human still. There have been many others who are indeed, utterly irredeemable." Her lips part and her head tilts, focused on the image she's making; it makes Ben tilt his own head to get a better view, to watch her at work, passionate and determined —two traits that she seems to be defined by. "Kylo has a long way to go; but if maybe, just _maybe_ , if there was someone… anyone who would take the time to _unravel_ him, to truly understand his mind, then who's to say that he can't be changed?"

Ben has a response, somewhere in the back, hazy and distracted fog of his mind; but he's enraptured by how her pencil strokes become more and more lull, almost atmospheric and blending in with the light rain that pours outside. Rey mistakes his lack of response as a sign to keep talking, yet, he notes, she too seems too enrtranced in her work to really make sure.

"The best and absolute worst thing humans can do… is that we're capable of change, if we really want it. We aren't the same as we are two years ago, ten years ago, fifty years ago; heck, I change _at least_ every two minutes," Ben lets his lips quirk at that, and he lets her continue, "Kylo has been alone his whole life; how is it certain at all that someone _can't_ change him? Because he's _evil_? Seems very black and white; pretty boring and lazy writing even."

He tries to ignore that last offense because _how dare_ she; he's not at all overcome by malice or the slightest offense though. It's a fair point, and Ben almost forgets to respond, realizing from the silence that she's finished talking. "… When you put it like that, it's definitely..." _something. genius. probable. debatable. interesting. admirable._ "… a lot more to consider. You could probably go to toe to toe with the author."

At that, she lets out a laugh, even having to stop her strokes to bend over. " _Ha!_ Bring the author in here and I'll _definitely_ give him a run for his money."

 _You already have; so many times it's becoming_ _ **endearingly**_ _annoying._

"Who knows; maybe he'd like your art enough to include in his work. Ever considered illustration?" He cranes his neck upwards just a bit more, hoping she doesn't notice the small movement and gives him an earful, "Since you like Kylo so much, have an image of him painted in your mind?"

He's almost _started_ when her eyes flicker to him, even though it only lasts for a fraction of a second; something _mischievous_ and _sneaky_ dances in her gaze, unfaltering as her mouth twitches, before she switches back to her canvas. "I've… put _some_ thought into it."

The only thought that crosses his mind is that _she knows, doesn't she? I'm_ _ **done**_ _._

But he… doesn't mind it; doesn't really care either.

Ben doesn't ask her to expand, and they sit in amiable silence. He closes his eyes, and he loses himself in the severity of the small noises around them, soft and relaxing, almost driving him to slumber.

"What were your parents like?" His insides freeze and his breath is caught; his eyes open, stark and wide, and he looks to her questioningly. Where had that come from?

She looks at him again, just for a moment, and goes back to her art; the pencil is gliding much easier, _softer_ as she offers a small shrug. "I figured since we're playing twenty questions and all that."

His eyes squint, "...that's… _that's not how—_ nevermind. What's it to you?" there's more bite to those words than he had intended, and he wants to _bang his head against the_ _ **fucking**_ _table_ for talking to her like that, because _how could he_ _ **forget**_ _that she grew up_ _ **without**_ _parents?_ Curiosity overtake him though, and he wonders _where_ exactly that inquiry has come from and now he's _defensive_ despite himself.

But before he can even get one word of apology out, she _bites_ back with her own slight venom, her own tone firm and unperturbed by his. "I was just wondering if something _happened_ since you don't seem to talk to them much. You're always cooped up in your flat; I nearly thought you went missing…. Until I kept hearing—"

 _Ah,_ he feels stupid for not having figured it out earlier, _of_ _ **course**_ _she's heard. These walls are paper thin._ He gulps and wonders _exactly just how much she's heard…_ _ **what**_ _has_ _she heard?_

 _Since when has she heard?_

"… I… we don't get along too well." That's an immense understatement, and it feels like he's _lying_.

"….death in the family?" it's a whisper, like it's something she _shouldn't_ know or pry into; she's very bold in her curiosity, but he's torn by wanting to spill everything to her right then and there, or to just clamp up tighter into his own mental corner. Ben doesn't really know what to say, and half of him is wanting to snap and the other is just… too bewildered at her. Why does she care? Why does it matter? "I'm sorry," she says hastily; it always seems like she knows when she's crossed a line or two too many, "I know it's not my place. Forgive me… but I just… I want you to know that I understand."

Ben hears a slight _break_ in her words, like she's coming to terms with them herself; and he's all too swept up with his own overwhelming curiosity to really care that she's _still_ asking about him and his life story, as if he matters.

"I understand _completely._ I… the feeling of loneliness, of solitude and all that; it's not exactly rare," she's struggling to speak, he can tell, however subtle the indications are; her pencil movements have become more halted, uncertain, and haggard. "Sometimes… sometimes you just.. just _can't_ _ **take**_ _it_ and it becomes too much." She reads him like an open book. "But I just wanted you to know, Ben, that… despite all that, you _aren't_ alone."

"You aren't either," the words bleed from his mouth without thinking, fueled on by sheer will. He sees her go still, if even for a moment, pencil, gloved hand, eyes, _everything_ halt like he's pressed the pause button. He's so lost at counting the freckles on the bridge of her nose and on her chin that he nearly jumps out of his skin when she tosses her pencil onto the floor.

Slowly, her smile takes over again.

" _Done_. Finally," she fans herself and stretches out her gloved hands, wringing the fabric as if absorbing the sweat that's gathered against the palms underneath. Much to his confusion and bewilderment, she _closes_ the giant sketch pad.

She hadn't acknowledged his words, and he wants to be bothered, or bring it up again.

But very much like _The King_ in his stories, he bundles everything and stuffs in in the back corner of his mind.

"Am I not allowed to see the finished result? I _am_ the model after all," Ben is undignified, _offended_ even, at her audacity.

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never drops from her face, thankfully. "You have to hold up your end of the bargain."

 _Well, just shoot me then why don't you._

"Until you at least _show_ me some of _your_ work, then maybe… _maybe_ I'll _consider_ showing you mine." He's almost tempted to tell her that _he already_ _ **has**_ _shown her his work; she hangs on to it like the most damn_ _ **precious**_ _thing in the world._

Almost.

Ben wastes no time in standing, bending his neck to each side and stretches to get that stillness out of his bones. He was always so sprightly as a child, and it carried on to his adult years; he doesn't like being in one, still, position for too long. "You can stay for some coffee; like I said, it's my day off, and considering I'm more than awake at this point, maybe I can actually do something productive."

She smirks at that, "Being productive includes offering me coffee? Who would have thought."

"To an extent; you scratch my back, I scratch yours." That doesn't really apply, but _whatever._ He nods to the closed sketch pad, "Maybe it's not to the same degree, but it's close enough."

Her smile shifts into something fonder, softer; he can't quite place it, and before he has time to register any more of it, Rey is hurriedly stepping out, telling him she'll be _right back_ as she hauls poor Bee-Bee in one arm, and her drawing tools in the other.

His gaze lands on the sketch pad, and against his better judgment, curiosity seeps through and takes over; he leafs through. There's people, friends, he assumes, strangers, children, animals. And he's in there too; gazing at the window, walking down the hall, facial studies and notes on his hands.

Something in him freezes and turns to ice at the second to last page, and his heart nearly bursts; he prays that she doesn't choose to step in.

It's him across the subway station.

The trains, the people are all a messy, charcoal blur; but he's stark against everything. And then he realizes why she hadn't looked at him while she was drawing him.

She didn't need to.

By the time she's come back, the sketch book is closed and untouched. He pretends to not feel her eyes boring into his back as he washes an additional mug.

* * *

Sometimes, he manages to catch her moments before her gaze lands on him; he can see, even for a few fleeting seconds, how _empty_ her expression is to the floor. Like she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. But it all evaporates the _second_ she looks at him, and her smile and eyes are always so radiant, that he can't help but think that he _must_ be delusional.

His writing hand has been cramping gravely, and he's been forced to rest it for nearly the entirety of the week. It's enough for him to be sent home just a couple of hours early due to him dropping some plates; normally, Ben would not be in high spirits after the fact, but he is more than thrilled to realize that he feels without much care in the world.

It's around five am, and he's even _whistling_ as he walks leisurely down the hall. He turns a corner, having opted to take the confounded long way to his unit, and of course like a typical, _anti-climatic_ moment as any other, he nearly bumps into Rey; his whistle dies down and he's about to actually _smile_ and greet her.

Until he takes in her face.

She's not crying, nor is she bruised or hurt; but something is _off_.

"Are… are you alright?" He asks, straight to the point and a furrow to his brow. He takes note of the pink stained cigarette hanging from her mouth, and the very peculiar way she's rubbing her wrist, wringing it with the fabric of her glove. Her hair is let loose, hanging over the curvature of her neck and brushing her shoulders. She's wearing loose sleepwear, gray in color and the shirt tied at the front to reveal the milky flesh of her stomach and navel, and loose trousers.

And of course, with her boxcutter.

In less than a second, and the fastest he's ever seen anyone to ever collect themselves, she smiles broadly at him and hastily pulls her glove further over her wrist. She snatches the cigarette from her mouth, delicate clothed fingers rubbing the tip of it as she waves it around. "Hello to you too; I… I thought you usually arrived later in the morning..." she trails off awkwardly.

Ben doesn't miss the obvious detour answer from his question, and he doesn't miss the way she's not really _looking_ at him like she regularly does. But he humors her anyway, and nods slowly, "I was allowed to leave early; my hand's cramping." There's no need to tell her that, but he wants her to take the bait; he's left himself wide open for ridicule, a reminder to their first encounter.

Anything to get her to smile.

But she doesn't; Rey attempts something _like_ a smile, but it's broken and not at all _there_ , and it falls flat. "Oh… sorry to hear.; but I guess that means you must be doing a lot of writing, right? That's good."

He wants to ask about the portrait and her art; but he suspects right now is not the time.

Neither speak, and they let silence engulf them. Ben clears his throat, and her glassy eyes focus just a little more, and she points in the opposite way he's coming from. "...my mail. I… uh, am getting my mail."

Too many inquiries swirl in his head; _Kind of a strange hour to check the mail, don't you think?_ or _Why are you not asleep?_ or _Do you maybe want some coffee?_

But he nods instead, once, before responding. "I'll go with you; I… forgot to check mine today." It's an unconvincing lie, not at all better than hers, and she looks like she's about to say something, before nodding herself and leading the way.

Something is… not right. And Ben doesn't know what to do.

"How's your day been?" Ben is a hulking figure next to her, and she is not necessarily a short woman at all. He has to crane his neck downward to face her properly.

She doesn't respond immediately, and he think that perhaps she hadn't heard him to begin with until she shrugs. "It's been… the usual."

He doesn't know what her usual day is like, but she offers no further explanation to her simple words.

"How's the furball?"

Her lips twitch ever so slightly, and he releases a tightness a breath that developed in the back of his throat like thorns, relieved.

"As good as he can be. I think he misses you; he's been curling up near that jacket of yours." _That_ makes him pause and he stares bluntly at her.

"You… you have my _jacket_?" Though, he should be more surprised that he's left it there and he hadn't even noticed; he's more concerned that she's _had_ it without saying a word.

She shrugs, and whatever smile she had been about to spill, evaporates softly into a blank slate and he wants to take his idiot words _back_. "The timing never quite lined up. I've been busy, you've been busy. You know how it is."

When did he even _leave_ his jacket?

He doesn't dwell on the question too much. This is a different side to her. He wants to believe that whatever worrying premonition he has is because he's a good reader of personalities and just people in general. But he hasn't had a real friend in years; who knows what signals he's amplifying and what red flags he's dismissing. In truth, Ben has no idea how to navigate through the map that is Rey; he never knows where he's going or where he ends up. But he's willing more than ever to learn.

She doesn't offer his jacket back. He finds he doesn't mind.

When they arrive to the metal stands, she paws her breast pocket for her keys; she's unhurried, if not in a complete daze. Ben leans against the wall, watching intently.

Until she stops her ministrations, and raises a brow at him.

"Weren't you going to check your mail?"

 _Oh._

"I.. uh, forgot my keys."

She gives him that strange look again, the one that makes him uneasy and unfamiliar to whatever this obscure side of hers is. She hadn't seen him looking into his pockets to come to the conclusion that he didn't even have his keys. It makes him look strange. Thankfully, she lets it go and resumes her own task. Her hand reaches slowly, delicately into her mailbox and grasps air.

She doesn't look remotely disappointed or impressed.

"Were you… expecting something?" he can't help the soft whisper, or the thought that _maybe, just maybe, for all her rainbows and endless sunshine, she has her storm clouds hidden beyond the horizon._

She doesn't even turn around or twitch.

"Not anymore."

Something resonates with him in those words; he has flashes of his _father on his deathbed, the utter heartbreak in his mother's tone over the phone and the stony surface of the tombstone he picked out_. His finger twitches, and so does his left eye; nervous ticks that came along with everything else he grew up with.

He thinks of her friend.

"Rey," he starts quietly, and something in him is _grazing the surface_ , fighting to maintain composure and surprised at how _strongly_ these feelings spill over. This is _familiar_ , and it's _scary_ ; "… _when_ is Finn coming back for his cat?" _How long have you been waiting for a letter that's not coming?_ The name of a nameless stranger is foreign to his tongue, but it holds _significance_ because it matters to her, so Ben doesn't feel too out of place in mentioning her friend. He has flashes of comrades when he was doing his service, nearly ten _—twelve_ years ago. He's all too familiar with the concept of _letters and family members and lovers and broken promises and_ _ **death**_ _and—_ Ben forces something bitter, oozing and _ugly and_ _ **tragic**_ down his throat.

' _I promised Finn to have Bee-Bee safe and sound for when he comes back.'_

' _It was the three of us for a while.'_

All too suddenly, _too much too soon,_ the longing looks to the horizon, the broken moments where here eyes are hollow, the endless trips to the mailbox, all start to come together.

' _Sometimes… sometimes you just.. just can't_ _ **take**_ _it and it becomes too much.'_

But she doesn't acknowledge his words in the slightest, as if he's never spoken. "Do you ever feel… like part of you is broken?" her prose makes his throat constrict, and his chest heave with something akin to fear. _Everyday,_ he thinks. _Every god forsaken day._ Like the subway all over again. Like she's staring, not through him, but _all_ of him.

But this time, _she's_ the one that's vulnerable.

And Ben realizes, only now, that maybe she always was.

"I—" he doesn't get a chance to finish whatever he wants to say before she practically slams her mailbox door shut, and it stuns him.

"I'm sorry; that was… intrusive," and then, without waiting for him, she turns to leave. "Please, take care of yourself." He feels there's more to those words, and he tries to pretends that they aren't a farewell. And it's just… so _wrong._

It's too permanent.

It only does so much; but he's definitely his mother's son. And he doesn't exactly know _what_ possesses him, but his mind is a strong, resounding _no._ There's familiarity in this; something about her attitude, her body language, _her eyes_ has him shaken deeply. He's _lived_ those eyes, those words; and Ben is nothing but a follower of his own instincts. Something is _wrong_ with her, and he wants to at least squelch whatever foreboding feelings he has to their core; to at least make sure she's okay and _that maybe he can offer a shoulder to cry on if that's what she needs._

His steps are longer, faster and it takes not much time to catch up to her effortlessly. "Rey… _Rey,_ _ **wait**_ _._ " Spotting her from behind, following the soft tendrils of her auburn hair and her thin frame, he knows that she can hear him, and it takes everything in him to not be stung by her outright rejection. But this isn't about him. "Rey, _would you slow down for just a second?_ " he doesn't yell, but there's urgency in his voice; he wants anything right now, anything at all to confirm that _he's wrong_. A slap, a scream, _something_ to let him know that she will be okay and he's just being a paranoid _freak._

But instead, she stops and turns around, with tears streaming down her eyes. It's enough to get him to freeze, hand having been outstretched to reach for her wrist.

"B-Ben… I can't… why is it always _you?"_

 _Okay,_ his mind is scattered, flying everywhere and nowhere and now he's trying to take into consideration the fact _that they are in the middle of the damn hallway, at some unholy hour._ He has to be logical; this is madness. "Rey… Rey, it's _okay_. Please, let's just go _inside_ and talk—" It's like she doesn't hear him, and her face scrunches into something heart wrenching, angry, _frustrated,_ like he's not _listening_ , which is _insane_ because he's here, he's _open to talk so why—_ She bares her teeth and furrows her brow; a mix of despair and _rage_ and just _—at what point had they reversed roles?_

 _At what point had he stopped being the only one that suffers?_

"You… _you… eugh!"_ she wrenches herself further away from him, but despite his weariness to her state, he steps closer. It's like she's physically trying to wear off whatever demons are lodged in her forearms, and she gestures to him to _be gone_. A gesture all too familiar to him, and hits just close to home.

It's how he bid goodbye to his father in his last moments.

His gut twists itself ugly, and he becomes nearly panicked. "Rey, _please_. We can talk; whatever it is you want to say, I'll listen, but please, let's go inside." That seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because her eyes grow into something poisonous and lethal despite how wet they are.

" _You,_ " she bares her teeth, and he has no idea where she's coming from or where she's going or _why_ all of a sudden after _just_ getting to know each other and get along, is it only _now_ that he's _noticing_ — "Who do you think you are? Who do _you_ think you've been up against?!"

The bite in her words fan the flames of his own ire. "I wasn't aware I was up against _anyone_ , Rey," he snaps back.

Her jaw clenches, "I _know_ you…. I _know you, Ben!"_

He doesn't even know _how_ she's gotten him so defensive, or what he's even defensive _about._ His heart stills. "Is that so?" he sneers at her, "Enlighten me, kid; because _I_ don't even know me half of the time. I don't know what _nonsense_ your babbling, but if you think you can just.. _just_ , turn around and— _damnit Rey,_ we can _talk; Finn_ wouldn't—"

"You _aren't_ _ **allowed**_ _to say his name!"_ In that instance -her eyes fierce and wild, her teeth bared and in a defensive stance like a caged animal- he is brought back to how he snapped at his mother, and he wants to smack _both_ of them for being such stubborn, _resistant—_ "It was _you_ ," she points to him, almost offensively, and she takes two steps forward, "In the subway!" she grits out. "It's. Always. _YOU!"_

He stops breathing and he is left with his mouth slightly agape.

He knew this. He realized that she too, remembered, based off that sketch in her canvas; hidden in the back, done as if it was the first thing she made when she arrived home. But he had wanted so desperately to _forget it_ ; to not let that… that _incident_ be the foundation of their friendship.

Ben didn't want Rey to know him as such a weak man.

He gulps.

Her words are relentless, but her eyes do not match; they are obscured with the shadows of demons that he can't decipher despite the experience with his own.

"At the subway. When I lost my _key_. When Bee Bee _freaked_ out. When I was trying to _draw._ Even now! You're _always_ here, _preventing_ me from— from— _goddamn_ _ **you**_ _!"_

He doesn't understand, but slowly, some more pieces fall into place; the realization is ugly, and it comes very much like _a train_.

The boxcutter; the gloves; the sprawled out kitchen utensils; the severe cleanliness of her unit; the quitting of her job. It hits him like a brick wall; his throat bobs painfully against his throat, and he wonders just how _expertly he's deluded himself._

Her smiles. Her laughs. Her gaze. They weren't for him.

They were the moments where he inadvertently gazed at her suffocating moments; they were _coverups_ and last minute ward offs mid-panic.

"I was… I was _firm_ and I was… I was going to! But then I _looked_ up and **you** were there; _watching_ me. You're _always_ watching me, always _eyeing_ me, and _talking_ to me and— what was I supposed to do? _How_ was I supposed to act?!" her mouth is quivering, and Ben realizes his crucial mistake; never once did he consider that she's just as broken as he is. Whenever he saw her, he saw _resolve_ and _radiance_. A person who carried the weight of their burdens like a true warrior; the kind of character that he wrote the thief, Kira, to be. Broken, fractured, but _strong_ and unwavering in their person, in their strengths. It had motivated him; seeing someone like her gave him _hope_. A dangerous thing; something he thought he _lost_ after he came back from his service, after losing his father and _after_ cutting off familial ties altogether.

Rey was someone that gave him hope to _live_ his life; and along the way, he wanted to take her with him, to give her whatever it was that she lacked, to get rid of all her worries and her nightmares, and be someone she _wanted._ Not need, _want._

And yet, he had assumed she had everything figured out.

"Rey… what… _what_ were you going to do… that day?" his voice is soft, having calmed himself in her speech, barely above a whisper, and in them something has turned him into a child all over again. He doesn't need to expand further on what day he's talking about; they both know.

Her eyes flicker dangerously to him, but it doesn't stop the tears. She doesn't answer, not directly, and her lip is trembling nearly violently. "I r-received a telegram—" her words are hurried, _choked_ and melting into one another, as if she's speaking a curse.

She had received a telegram that day.

Finn isn't coming back. He never was.

His tone tightens into something ugly, "You think… you think I do this _intentionally?"_ Something in him breaks; his resolve, his hope, and he steps forward, slowly. An inscrutable expression on his face.

Rey doesn't move from her spot, so he continues.

"You _think_ for… _one_ _second_ that you were the _only_ one that was going to jump that day?" he scoffs, and there's a twisted sense of satisfaction when she widens her eyes.

God, those eyes.

He swallows painfully, every word being a struggle to breathe and every breath like fire scorching the inside of his chest. "I had lost _everything_ that mattered to me. I came here, to New York, to be _alone_ ; to let my madness run its' course until _I wouldn't be able to anymore._ That day, I saw _nothing,_ not my surroundings, not even _myself_ ," his lip twitches when a flicker of familiarity scratches across the surface of her eyes. "… just _you._ "

She's human, like him; she has faults, she suffers and she can break like he can. She's probably more broken than he can even imagine. _Broken beyond repair._ Something clicks, and now, he _understands_ why she was fixated on Kylo Ren; _'...he just needs someone to understand him. Someone broken as he is…'_ Have they both been shifting blame? Have they both seriously been avoiding their own demons in favor to deal with each other? _Is this what it all comes down to?_ He doesn't know her; not really, because he's painted an idealized version of her in order to gain a semblance of _hope._ And in that, he's blatantly overlooked _her_ pain, her own damage.

And in that moment, not even Kylo Ren is that much of a bad person compared to how Ben Solo is.

Selfish, indeed.

His lips wobble, "I…. I don't..." He hates himself more than ever in that moment; ever the disappointment. Even now, he's made _it all about him again._ "I'm… _sorry_ ," his apology comes out hastily, broken and unsure. He doesn't even know what he's sorry for.

For everything, maybe. But how do you express that?

Despite himself, he takes a step to her; she doesn't step away, but all it would take is gust of wind to knock her down. "I'm sorry that…. That I only focused on me..." _Even if you never meant to give me those smiles, those eyes; even if they weren't genuine, you still_ _ **helped**_ _me… and I never helped you._

Something is caught in his throat, and he remembers the very words that Han said to him.

But this is different; he still has a _chance_. And so he holds out a hand; a plea, a _beg to let him in._

Rey looks too hurt, and even know, Ben knows that she's too caught up with her own demons, with her own hurt. Her hands are shaking, and tears stream down her face.

She doesn't know him either. Not really.

"Please," he says, his gaze lands on her wrists as she wrings them almost painfully; and she _almost_ pulls them down, and the milky strip of her exposed skin makes him want to kick himself for not having realized it sooner. There's red scorching marks; gashing and healed angrily. Like the marks have been made with a dull blade; she quickly covers the skin. _"Please,"_ he repeats again, and though he is not sure what he might do _if_ she takes his hand, he just wants her to take it anyway. _Please don't turn_ _away_ _from me. Don't do what I did._

Rey looks like she's all but fighting against her own will. She _almost_ brings her hand in his, and he can _almost_ feel it.

 _Almost._ But she turns, gives a broken, _defeated_ light scoff, and turns around.

And This time, it's her turn to slam the door in his face.

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But the next morning, despite his inability to sleep and failing miserably at getting rest, wondering if this is what he gets, _failing someone_ that he actually cared for, he _almost_ misses the sound of an envelope sliding under his door. His fingers tremble and his throat constricts:

 _ **How about a deal, Your Majesty?  
**_ _ **Surrender your treasure, and hand over the Kingdom.  
**_ _ **And I'll consider returning your crown.**_

 _ **(I wasn't in the best of moods when you offered your hand; let me buy you a coffee? At the corner cafe?)**_

 _ **(also... would you mind autographing my book?)**_

— _ **R**_

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He makes sure to bring his good pen.

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 **( END )**


End file.
